Monday, June 27, 2011

The previous owners of our house planted some gnarly bushes. The root system looks a little like that, right up there. Topside, the bushes are just as knotted and bound together. The bushes grow low too. Perfect housing for mold and mice. The mice, in turn, dig up the rest of the yard. Not in a nice way either.

Needless to say, even before we put an offer on the house, Mr. Hall has been eyeing them. Silently warning them of their demise.

It's not an easy job. It requires chainsaws, hoes and some metal spear thing. It doesn't help that the roots and the bushes are embedded in loose rocks. The golf ball size rocks act as mulch I guess.

So I'm watching Mr. Hall, my beloved hubby, reclaiming our yard. He works efficiently, digging and chainsawing. He spears and pushes. Never swearing, never huffing. Just digging them up. I offer to help.

We look at each other. There is NO WAY that's a good idea. We laugh a little.

So I offer this: That guy is Jud Crandall. From Pet Cemetary. I say random quotes from him while Mr. Hall digs the unholy bush asunder:

"That there is the old Indian burial ground. The Indians used that till the land went sour."